Insomnia
by Lady Sarai
Summary: PreRENT. Mark can't sleep. In the middle of the night, he and Roger discuss April. If 'discuss' is the right word for it...


**Title: **Insomnia

**Author: **Lady Sarai, with King Zoë

**Fandom: **RENT

**Rating: M**, for language

**Pairing(s): **Pre-RENTMention of Mark/Maureen and Roger/April

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing what-so-ever.

**Notes:** Takes place roughly following the events of King Zoë's fic _Not Enough_ and alludes briefly to them, though it makes sense enough on it's own. Uber-thanks to Zoë, who provided Roger's dialogue and endless advice and counsel, and helped me choreograph. ;) And who is my beta-reader extraordinaire, as well as the Angel (or Collins) to my Mark. And to Aradiachiba, who is Maureen. And who suggested a shove.

**Summary: **Pre-RENT. Mark can't sleep. In the middle of the night, he and Roger discuss April. If "discuss" is the right word…

* * *

The loft just isn't the same without Maureen. If Mark is honest with himself, it hasn't been the same for months—since he and Maureen came home from a movie he doesn't even remember and found... Well. 

Now there's not only no Benny, but no April, and no Collins. And as of today, no Maureen. It's just Mark and Roger. Roger who isn't even Roger anymore. He's not even anything resembling the man Mark knew. Certainly nothing like the Roger he was before meeting April.

It's four in the morning, according to the alarm clock, and Mark can't sleep. He hasn't slept well for a long time, but tonight seems worse. Every time he starts to drift off, he reaches for Maureen and wakes himself up. Mark reminds himself that this was his idea, and it was necessary. This isn't much comfort in the middle of the night, when all he wants is to hold her against him and feel Maureen's fingers in his hair and hear her voice in his ear.

Mark wonders if Maureen is sleeping in her new apartment. Selfishly, he hopes she misses him.

Resigning himself to the fact that sleep is a lost cause, Mark gets up and leaves his room. Maybe he'll make some tea. Of course, it's not that tea is going to do anything, but it's almost a programmed response. When in doubt, make tea. This would make more sense if he were British, but he's not; he's Mark. And for Mark, tea has always made things better.

The loft is dark, and quiet. There's no moonlight, but it's New York, so Mark can see well enough to make it to the kitchen area. A movement from the couch catches the corner of his eye, and Roger's voice cuts the silence abruptly. "Hey, Mark."

He can't help being startled and jumps. His pulse races, and Mark takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes. Just like Roger, to give him a heart attack by saying hello. "Shit, Rog. You scared the crap outta me."

Roger laughs sharply. "Sorry, man."

Mark is too tired to judge Roger's mood, and the whole idea of dealing with Roger at all is suddenly too exhausting to consider. A litany of excuses for retreating back to his room run through his mind, but then he notices that Roger is calmly eating his way through a bag of Oreos. He speaks without thinking. "Hey, leave some for me."

Roger holds the bag out to him. "Go ahead, take some."

Mark grunts, but crosses the room and drops heavily onto the couch. He's not sure how long they sit there in the dark and silent apartment, sharing the cookies. Long enough, anyway, for Mark to wonder if he might actually be able to fall asleep if he gives it another try.

"Can't sleep?"

Mark is surprised when Roger breaks the comfortable silence they'd been sharing. "No." He's not sure he wants to risk having a conversation with Roger, but he finds himself talking anyway. "I miss Maureen." He has no idea why he has said this.

Roger grunts. "I get that."

Mark exhales sharply and barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. "Sure." He can't keep the sarcasm out of his voice, and doesn't even notice saying this aloud.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Roger asks sharply, sitting up.

Mark stares at him blankly. He is tired and misses Maureen and does not want an argument. "What?"

"You don't think I miss April?" Roger's tone is confrontational and bitter.

Mark sighs. Lately, even the tamest of conversations with Roger is difficult. Mark is sick of walking on eggshells to avoid Roger's anger. It doesn't matter what mood Roger is in; Mark can't seem to avoid pissing him off. Sometimes it's worse when Roger starts out in a good mood. He is sick of catering to Roger's mood, and maybe this is why he doesn't just let this go. "It's not the same."

"Yeah, you're right it's not the same." Roger counters bitterly. "April _died_. Maureen's just down the street."

Righteous anger bubbles in Mark's chest. The only reason Mark is sitting out here having this ridiculous conversation is because he can't sleep. And he can't sleep because he misses his girlfriend. And _that_ is entirely Roger's fault. "Just down the street because I _told_ her to go," he snaps. "For her own sake! April _killed_ herself."

Roger glares dangerously. His tone is venomous when he says, "Fuck you, Cohen. You have no _idea_ what she was going through."

Mark rolls his eyes. He is so _sick_ of Roger and his bullshit. "You're right, I don't. I've never been a junkie."

"And you've never lived with a death sentence hanging over your head, either," Roger snaps, biting off each word like a curse. "Don't run your mouth about shit you don't understand."

Mark scoffs and shakes his head. He loves how easily Roger dismisses him.

"What?" Roger barks challengingly.

Mark's reply is dripping with bitterness. "Nothing. Just forget it."

"_No_. You think _you_ understand?"

Mark finds himself saying what he has promised he would never admit, especially to Roger. It is months of bitterness, resentment and pain and he feels it so strongly right now that he can't help speaking. Right now, he hates her with every fiber of his being. That hatred laces his words and gives them weight.

"She was _selfish_, Roger, and a coward. She took the easy way out."

There is a moment of silence in which the words hang in the air. Mark doesn't even regret them before Roger's face twists and he draws him arm back. Mark has enough time to think that he really can't afford to replace his glasses and throws his arm up. He barely manages to deflect the blow before Roger swings again with his other arm. He connects, squarely, with Mark's jaw and he reels from the impact. The pain is momentarily paralyzing.

Then Mark's breath comes out in a stunned exhale when Roger's elbow drives into his gut. He is distracted from his aching jaw by the force of the blow. Pain explodes in his stomach and his ribs ache, but he doesn't even have time to react. He's not sure how, but Mark finds himself being propelled backward and all of Roger's not inconsiderable bulk is falling on him—or rather, shoving him—off the couch, to the floor. Whatever breath he had left is expelled from him when he hits the floor roughly on his back and Roger lands on top of him. There is barely time to register all of this before his head and the floor meet with a sharp _thwack_ that echoes through his body.

Dimly, Mark knows that his head just _bounced_ off the floor and he narrowly misses knocking foreheads with Roger because Roger moves his just in time. By the time his head returns to the floor, it's all Mark can do to force himself to breathe. His vision is so blurry that it takes several moments and a lot of blinking to clear it. He feels drunk. Or maybe high. Except he's pretty sure that neither of those would cause the fierce, sharp pain radiating from the back of his head.

Somewhere above him, Roger inhales sharply and Mark feels him moving, sitting up—on Mark's stomach, robbing him of whatever breath he had managed to catch after hitting the ground. Roger speaks, but it doesn't register with Mark. "_Oh._ God, man. I'm sorry... I didn't mean to lose my temper like that..."

"Get the _FUCK_ off me!" Mark explodes and pulls his arm back, taking a wild swing.

Roger curses and leans back, grabbing Mark's wrist. "Mark! Come _on,_ man!"

Mark tries pulling his arm free, but Roger's grip is too strong. "Let _go_!" Even he notices the somewhat hysterical edge to his voice as he struggles to free himself. He is panicking, and full of rage. Flailing and twisting, Mark does whatever he can to make Roger get off of him. He manages to land a solid punch to Roger's stomach with his free arm.

Roger exhales sharply and in that moment, Mark twists his arm free and shoves Roger with all the strength he can muster. Roger is caught off-guard and lands awkwardly.

Mark takes the opportunity and scrambles to put as much distance as he can between them. His back runs into the couch and he stops to lean against it. Mark is about as far from Roger as he can get while sitting this way, which is what he wants. He's not certain he can stand yet, and the idea of getting himself to his room is daunting to say the least. He is dizzy and light-headed. He takes advantage of Roger's stunned silence to catch his breath and register the fact that he is shaking with fury.

Roger breaks the silence hesitantly. "Mark... I'm... I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have lost my temper..."

"Fuck you." He says this with feeling. His head is throbbing.

Roger bristles. "Knock it off."

"Why should I?" Mark is angry and tired and aching. Reaching a hand back, he gingerly feels the back of his head. His fingers brush lightly against what will surely be a significant bump and he hisses in a breath at the sharp pain this brings. Still angry, he can't keep the defeated tone out of his voice when he says quietly, "Dammit, Roger."

Roger glares. His tone is both furious and petulant. "You started it."

"What?" Mark looks at him, wondering if he heard him right.

"You didn't have the right to talk about her like that."

"So you crack my head open?" Mark snaps incredulously.

Roger makes an incoherent noise and rolls his eyes. "I _said_ I was sorry!"

"And I _heard_ you." But this isn't going to be solved with "I'm sorry" and Mark needs Roger to know this.

There is a tense silence between the two men that is broken by a sudden outburst from Roger. "_Shit_, Mark! Do you think this is _easy_? Do you think I didn't consider _following_ her!"

_Do you have half a fucking clue how scared I was that you _would But Mark doesn't say this. "You almost did—or do you think I didn't notice you killing yourself with heroin?"

Roger glares for a long moment before standing up abruptly. "Fuck you, Mark." His voice shakes. "Let's see how well _you_ take the news that you're going to die." And then Roger does what he always does when things get too hard; he turns and storms off.

Mark winces when Roger slams his door violently. He is abruptly reminded of his aching skull when he drops his head against the couch. "Ow," he mutters to the empty room. _Looks like sleep is definitely out of the question now. _Vaguely, he wonders if there is any ice in the freezer. Probably not. _Damn._

Tomorrow Roger will refuse to leave his room and will be sulky and full of self-pity. Alternately, he will mope about the loft and pretend the whole incident didn't happen, and that there is no bruise on Mark's chin or egg on his head. Mark wonders which would be worse.

His anger leaves him abruptly and he is empty. He knows there is no other way, and that Roger needs him. He even knows he needs Roger—or rather, he needs the man Roger once _was_. But sometimes Mark has to remind himself that he still cares.

* * *


End file.
